


Are We the Bad Guys?

by miidniight



Series: Dream SMP Oneshots [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Based Off Wilbur's Most Recent Stream, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mentioned Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Sad Wilbur Soot, Wilbur Soot Needs a Hug, at the very end, there's like one swear word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26922964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miidniight/pseuds/miidniight
Summary: based off of wilbur's most recent stream, clip i took stuff from was 1:08:11 - 1:09:07, just a small thing that goes into what his character for the rp might have been thinkingenjoy :)
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Dream SMP Oneshots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2018798
Kudos: 79





	Are We the Bad Guys?

The air was chilly, cold and kissed with something - though Wilbur couldn’t tell you what.

Everything seemed edged with the barest touches of danger, just enough to keep you looking over your shoulder while you doubted your own fears. Even the grass brushing up against Wilbur’s boots in a soft, constant, _shush shush shush_ had him fighting back a wince with every step. Shadows seemed to leap out at him menacingly and he had to stop more than once to rub at his eyes and remind himself that shadows were all they were, not those who had sided with Schlatt trying to attack him and Tommy while their guards were down.

Foreboding coated every nerve in Wilbur’s body, fed eagerly by his own paranoia as his thoughts circled around and around; always on Schlatt, always on Pogtopia, always on _something_ that Wilbur could never let go.

Wilbur could never _ever_ let go.

He shivered, drawing his cloak tighter around him as he passed under a tree and turned his head back. Tommy looked up from where he had been carefully sidestepping a mud puddle to catch Wilbur’s eye. Bright blue - so full of hope, trust, and things Wilbur wasn’t sure he deserved anymore - hooked on warm brown, held for the briefest of seconds before Wilbur looked forward again, barely missing tripping over a root that jutted out from the dirt. 

A small pond lay ahead of them, just wide enough that when Wilbur jumped it, the heel of his left boot dipped just beneath the surface and dampened the leather material. Hissing under his breath, Wilbur ran a hand through his hair and looked up at the sky.

It was dark - black and cloudless, covered by a blanket of stars that twinkled down at him innocently despite all the horrors they must have seen. Wilbur wondered if he could ever be like those stars, simply being, even after seeing the atrocities of the world. Living with hope and peace in their hearts, without fearing for their lives every second of every day, never knowing who they could trust as betrayal after betrayal was sent their way.

If Tommy hadn’t been cursing the pond behind him (no doubt for the same reason Wilbur had), he might have sat there and contemplated longer and shed a few tears along the way.

“Tommy,” Wilbur began, voice high strung and thin - reedy, one might say. “I got a question for you.”

A hand through the hair once again, pushing curls back from his forehead, but Wilbur tugged too hard. It yanked at the chocolate brown roots and, paired with his accelerated breathing, kicked his heart rate up three gears.

“This festival...this is a good idea. This doesn’t seem bad - this doesn’t seem evil, y’know?”

He glanced over his shoulder to catch Tommy looking at him in confusion, brows furrowed beneath a halo of bright golden hair. 

And God, Tommy looked so much like an angel - like the hero of the story that Wilbur could never be - that for the briefest of moments, the desire to shove him into the pool of water behind them broke through the panic of his thoughts.

Wilbur’s breath caught in his chest at that, and he turned back hurriedly, shame coloring his cheeks pink in the low lighting of the night.

“It seems like a nice, friendly thing Schlatt is doing,” Wilbur continued after quietly clearing his throat.

“Yeah…?” came Tommy’s reply, bewilderment painting his every word in a soft shade of gray that speared Wilbur through the heart.

Wilbur’s voice broke as tears gathered in his eyes. “Tommy are we the bad guys?”

The second it came out of his mouth, Wilbur wondered why he had even asked. How would Tommy, a sixteen year old boy, a _child_ know how to respond to that? In Tommy’s eyes they were the underdogs, beaten and bruised, but fighting back with righteous justice gleaming along the edge of their swords and victory woven into the strands of the feathers that tailed their arrows.

Silence stretched between them.

“Because, I mean-we were the-we just kind of...made ourselves the leaders, and then we had a vote and he won by a coalition government, which was completely legal, and now we’re trying to overthrow him. I’m-it feels like we’re the bad guys, Tommy.”

And then, quietly, “This doesn’t feel correct.”

Wilbur stopped walking and turned to face Tommy entirely, cloak swishing around his legs as he tugged the hood back and bared his face to his companion, water lined eyes and all and practically whispered, “Tommy, am-am I a bad guy? Am I a villain in this story? Am I a villain in your history?”

Tommy, for as big as his mouth tended to be, seemed speechless. He stared at Wilbur, jaw dropped and body slack, loose and entirely unsure. Regret flickered in Wilbur’s stomach as he recognized the consequences of voicing his fears aloud. He had taken the carefully drawn out map of Tommy’s world, marked with weeks upon weeks of notes and assurances _that they were the heroes_ and torn it to shreds in front of his eyes. Wilbur could practically see the sentence that ran through Tommy’s brain at that exact second:

_Are we on the wrong side?_

With a sniff, Wilbur pulled his hood back up, turning and continuing his trek through the forest (though the once green it carried seemed to have been covered in a filter of gray), steps slow and soft as he fought against the tremors that threatened to run through his body. Wilbur bit his lip and held in the slow, toxic sludge that was creeping through his mind, infecting his every memory with how _he_ had been evil this whole time, not Schlatt.

After a few minutes of silent walking, Wilbur reached a hand up to wipe away the single tear that had dripped down his cheek, mind made up.

If this was the role that he had truly been playing, if Wilbur really was the villain of the war for L’Manberg, then he would be a damn good one.


End file.
